The Perfect Fit
by Dannyblue
Summary: A Skin missing scene. A glimpse inside the mind of the shapeshifter.


Title: The Perfect Fit (1/1)  
Author: Dannyblue  
Email: Takes place during "Skin", so there are spoilers for that episode.  
Rating: PG  
Pairings: None.  
Disclaimer: SUPERNATURAL and its characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.  
Distribution: All you have to do is ask.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Author's Note: As some of you know, I'm writing a story called "Bitten". Or, at least, trying to. Sometimes, stories don't always want to cooperate. So, while I'm trying to get that one on track, I thought I'd share another fic with you guys. Hope you enjoy.

He'd never been in a skin that fit this well before.

The shifter studied his reflection in the full-length mirror that was leaning against the sewer wall. The mirror was old and faded, the back worn away in spots, leaving nothing but clear glass. But there was enough left to see.

Hazel eyes stared back at him from a handsome face. A face that felt familiar somehow, like it had been staring back at him from the mirror forever.

Usually, no matter what body he was in, something always felt wrong. Too tight, or too loose. Too hot or too cold. Too…something. And he'd thought that was the way it was supposed to be, the price he had to pay for his gifts. He could steal other faces, other bodies. Could escape his own hideous form by becoming someone else. Someone beautiful and desired. Someone others would smile at. Want. Touch. But it would never really feel right.

Not right enough to stay.

And that was okay, because the identities he borrowed were just a means to an end. He needed those other faces because he couldn't go out into the world with his own without being stared at, watched. Seen. And to do what he wanted to do, he needed to be unnoticed. Or, at least, not feared. And he'd yet to meet anyone who didn't fear what he truly looked like. Even his own mother…

He closed his eyes, heart aching as he slammed the door on those memories. That didn't matter now, because he had memories of another mother. One who kissed him on the cheek when she tucked him in at night. One who had golden hair and looked like an angel.

When he was through with an identity, he shed it the way one discarded an old costume, tossing it aside, forgetting it. Because, as much as he loved being able to become someone else, he hated it, too. Hated that wrong feeling, like little grains of sand under "his" skin, scratching him raw from the inside. Always reminding him of the lie, of the monster he really was.

But not this time. This time, this skin, it just felt…right.

Opening his eyes, the shifter turned this way and that, studying his reflection from every angle. Liking what he saw. No one would cringe from the sight of this face. No one would flinch away from touching this body.

He flashed a smile, the one he "remembered" flashing so many times to charm info out of someone during a job. Or to get a 'phone number from a pretty girl.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Dean."

And his smile grew because, in that moment, he was. More than he'd ever been any of the others. He'd borrowed so many faces, so many memories, but he'd always been _him_ underneath it all. Ugly, empty, repulsive _him_.

But, now, he was as far from being him as he'd ever managed to get. No, he was Dean Winchester. And he had a brother named Sam.

_Sammy._

His father was missing.

_No. Dad **left** me. Just up and gone, without a word._.

But, even then, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that the old man loved him. That his mother had loved him. That Sammy loved him.

He glanced up at the reflections face, sharing with it an embarrassed smirk. The one some girl at a party called adorable when she thought Dean was too far away to hear. "And to think I almost killed you."

And, if he had, he would never have known what he was missing. This feeling.

He pressed his hand against his chest, all of his attention focused on the heart beating against his palm. Fascinated—almost like he'd been when he became someone else for the first time—he let his hand wander from his collar bone, across his shoulder, down his arm. Memorizing the feel of every muscle, and sinew, and bone. Then, he was staring at his hand, lifting it, splaying his fingers wide, studying every detail. Marveling at how real it felt.

"_My_ hand," he muttered.

And someone groaned, as if in protest.

Startled, the shifter turned, eyes glinting silver for a moment as the light caught them just right. He half-expected to come face-to-face with a fully awake Dean Winchester. But, no, Dean was still out of it, still securely tied to the chair, head lolling forward until his chin nearly touched his chest. He groaned again as he tried to fight his way back to consciousness, but finally settled back down into the blackness of oblivion.

Head tilted to one side, the shifter walked towards the man who was wearing the exact same face. Kneeling in front of the chair, he rested his hands on his captive's knees.

"Okay, Dean Winchester," he said. "What else have you got for me?"

He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight as he prepared for the pain he knew was to come.

It was like someone shoved an ice pick in one temple and out the other. And his mind was flooded with memories, thoughts, feelings. Pieces of Dean Winchester. And, just like the skin, these fit, too. Felt familiar, just like the reflection in the mirror. Because, while he and Dean were different in many ways, there were so many ways in which they were the same.

Just when the pain became almost too much to bear, when he felt seconds away from passing out, the shifter pulled back, cutting off the mental connection. Gasping for air, he sagged forward, resting his head on Dean's thigh. He could only take a few pieces at a time. Take too much at once, and the memories he absorbed were a chaotic mass of random images and voices and sensations, all but useless. He needed time to absorb them, understand them. To make them a part of him.

Lifting his head, he pressed his palm against his forehead, like he was trying to keep his brain from spilling out. Another price he paid for his gifts.

He wondered how long absorbing an entire life would take. He'd never tried to before. Usually, he only "borrowed" enough to make the masquerade believable. To make his prey believe it was their husband or boyfriend they were letting into their home. That it was the man they loved cutting into them, making them scream.

But this time was different. This time, he wanted more.

As the pain subsided, he opened his eyes. And his intense gaze settled upon the unconscious man's face. "I'm going to take all of you," he promised.

Just then, another groan filled the lair. This one came from a few yards behind Dean.

The shifter grinned. "It sounds like little brother is waking up." Giving Dean's knee a friendly pat, he pushed to his feet. "Time to have some fun."

THE END


End file.
